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Class    of 


A.  METR MA:    NARRATIVE 


KENNETH  CAMPBELL 


JOHN  MASTERSON; 


OR, 


Passion  and  The  Priest 


A  METRICAL  NARRATIVE 


BY 


KENNETH  CAMPBELL 


SAN  DIEGO 

CAMPBELL   PRESS 

807  STH  ST. 


JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


COPYRIGHTED,   1921, 

BY  JOHN  P.  CAMPBELL,  PUBLISHER, 

SAN  DIEGO,  CALIFORNIA 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST 


DEDICATION 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


07 


JOHN  MASTKRSON;  or 


FOREWORD 

Since  Time  began,  one  of  man's  most  heart- 
bleeding,  sternest  wars  has  been  the  conflict  be- 
tween the  love  instinct,  the  mating  of  the  sexes, 
and  the  interference  of  parental  and  other  outside 
adjustment;  between  the  laws  of  convention  and 
rebellious  native  instincts.  John  Masterson  was  a 
victim  of  both,  and  it  is  his  soul  struggle  in  this 
world-old  strife  that  I  have  sought  to  portray  in 
terms  of  emotion.  THE  AUTHOR. 

Sacramento,   California. 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST 


I. 

LA  JOLLA— 1913 
MAY 

Forgetfulness,   ah   that   is  more 

Than   Memory;    the   Gone   Before, 

The  Lost  to  lose — that  were  a  power 

To    gild    with    bliss    the    bleakest    hour. — 

In  work   I   cannot  sink  the  past: 

The    dreams    of    Night    must    lower    at    last. 

I    sleep,    but    day    for    me    begins 

And    preying   Thought,    vampirish,   wins!  — 

Aileen!    A    name   that    lives   like   myrrh 

In  Urns  of   Memory;    I  may  not  slur 

My    lady    lost,   of    gentle   will; 

Too    strange   her    love — I    love    her   still! 

Her  beauty  is  my  nocturne's  wraith! 

I    fight,    I    fight,    to   hold   my   faith: 

For    if    I    lose    that,    I    am    lost, 

A    cynic    soul,    in    self    engrossed. — 

I   sit   within   the   gloomed   embrasure 
Of  the  cliff;    the  surf's  erasure 
Blots    out    each    message    on    the    sand 
Below,    with    paced    recurrence    bland. 
The  Moon  hath  laid  her  Rug  of  Flame 
Across   the  Sea;    'twas   so   she  came 
Into  my   life,  too  soon  away, 
In    Beauty    as    Dian    astray. 

Her    father   v/ith   his   millions   heaped 
Where  weaklings  at  his  bidding  leaped, 
With  domination  overbore 
My   landless   love — to   me  his   door 


JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


Was    locked   with    triple    links    of    steel ; 
His    lackeys'    arrogance    I    feel 
Unto    this   night.      My    scorned   dismissal 
Was    followed   by    Aileen's   epistle: 

'Tis   best   we    never   meet    again ; 
I   fight  my  father's  will  in  vain."- 

This    ring    that    binds    my    smallest    finger 
She    sent;    our    first    embraces    linger 
In    visions    when    my    day    is    done, 
But   she,   my    love,    my    life,    is   gone! 

II. 

JUNE 
I. 

A    green    cove    all    a   pulsing   blur 

Of    lightless    sound    by    night, 
Save  when  the  lunar  breezes  stir 
From    depths    of    soundless    light, 

By    day    a    blaze    of    beryl    and    of    blue 
The   sounding  surf,    the   fifing   mev/. 

2. 
The    waves,    the    breezes,    sing    "Aileen" 

To   one  who   can't   forget; 
The  crinkling   swells   in   fitful   sheen 
Are   pens   that   write   it   yet. 

To   me,   to   me   they   spell   "A-i-1-e-e-n," 
My    first,    my    last,    my    joy,    my    teen! 

3. 
The   bathers    lance   the   bellowing    foam 

With   spear-point   hands,   or   lie 
In    sands,    or    idly    cliffward    roam, 
Where   spume-tossed    opals    fly 
And    shatter    to    a    futile    spray 
As    broke    a    dream   of    mine    one    day. 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST 


4. 

One  of   the   gay   and  one  apart 

Idly    I    plied    the    sand, 
Which    shifted    as    a    woman's    heart, 
I    thought,    and   with    my    hand 

Destroyed    the    fabrics    that    I    wrought — 
When    far-flung    fear    seaward    I    caught. 

5. 
A    woman's    agony    can    pierce 

The   sentient   ear   of  man 
And    nerve    him    with    a    spirit    fierce 
As    moved    the    primal    clan 

To   meet   the   monsters   of   the   cave — 
Responding,    swift    I    fought    the    wave. 

6. 

It   seemed   the   rigor   of   my   soul 

Resolved    in    lenient   joy; 
'Twas    not    I    sought    the    hero's    role, 
That    egoist's    alloy 

Of   selfish    aim    and    Gascon    pride: 
'Twas   that    I    hungered   to   be   tried. 

7. 
My   hands    locked   strands   of    gold-wet    hair; 

The   face  was  pallid  under; 
And    lo!    There    lay    that   Aileen    there! 
Again   must   dull    Fate   blunder? 

T.  ha    weird    three    sisters    mix    the    cards 
And  oddly  heap  the  human  shards? 

8. 
I    swam   with   my    lax    love   ashore, 

The    clamor    of    the    throng 
Unheard,   and  to   the   lee   I   bore 
Her   from  the  wild  surf-song 

Below   a   rock;    her  eyelids  stirred: 
"Aileen!"    I    cried — that    fateful    word! 

9. 

And  ere  the  prattling  gossips  came, 


8  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


She  smiled  and  sighed   with  me: 
Precluded    passion    leaped    to    flame — 
And   only    I    was    free!  — 

beloved,"    was    all    she    said, 

Ere    memory    again    had    fled. 

10. 

They    bore    her    to    the    bungalow, 
Her    sumptuous    Summer    eyrie ; 
And  That  has  intervened,   I   know. 
Will  make  my  lot  less  dreary: 

These    barriers    of    the    social    laws 
Are    reared    to    give   the    timid   pause. 

II. 

For  she  is  mated  with  a  pang 

Encarnalized,    a    thorn, 
That    pierces    as    the    serpent's    fang; 
Where  love  lives  not,  the  scorn 

Of  her  pure   mind   for  such   as   he 
V/ho  purchased  her,   turns  inwardly. 

12. 

She    scorns    herself    as    one    of    those 

Nomads   of   the   street, 
Who   never  bask  in   love's   repose, 
Nor    learn    its    duties    sweet — 

Incarnate    sacrifice    to    pride, 

I  he  Vestal   flame  within  her  died. 

13. 

Convention   ever   stones    to   death 

The    unsafeguarded    Phryne: 
But    wedded    goods    is    spared    foul    breath — 
As   though   the   guilt  were   tiny 

That    welds    two    lives    where    love    is    not 
And    one    remembers — unforgot! 

14. 

What   barrier   should    there    be    to    love 
Such   as  binds  her  to   me? 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST 


Mine    ark    is    beached;    I've    launched    a    dove 
To    find    a   nascent    tree, 

Then   bring   to  me   the  herald   twig; 
The  world  is  small;   the  heart  is  big! 

III. 
JULY 

1. 

I    am  martial   today   in   my   delight, 

Fcr   the   brimming   is   mine  without   measure ; 
The   chill  shadows  are  fled  in   a  night; 

All  the  day   is  but  votive  to  pleasure; 
And    I'll   wander   the   canyon's   cool   maze 

Through   the   manifold   beauteous   hours, 
Where    the    crimson    poinsettias    blaze. 

Oh   for   me   the   militant    flowers! 

2. 

March,   march,    march,   with   your   sword,   whitest 
soldiers 

Of   the  chaparral,   parading  the   slope; 
Spanish    bayonets,    how    firmly    you    hold    yours; 

White,   white,    forever  my   hope! 
And  ever  I   know  that  the  Summer 

Will   die    in   your   withering   arms; 
Today  you   are   routing   the   mummer, 

And   the   scyther   is   hid  with   his   harms, 

3. 

While   the   woodpecker   hammers    his    drum; 

Vitality,    action,    delight, 
Virility,   fervor  now  come, 

In  spirit  until  the  rich  night: 
For  my   fairest   is   stealing  to   meet  me 

In   a   dell   by    a  musical   stream; 
She  is  coming  to  thank  and  entreat  me 

To  go,   to   forgive   and — to  dream! 


10  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


IV. 

Perplexities   assail   the   finite   thought 
Of  man ;    he  has  been  born   to  doubt. 
When    fervor   passes   and    the   morning   calm 
And  drab  has  sunk   trom  night's  jet  store, 
How  slowly  click   the   cams  of  introspection, 
Remorseless   as   the   mill   stones   of    the   gods, 
Till  each  indissoluble  deed  is  tossed 
Aside   by    force   that  grinds   in   vain, 

To  crush  it  for  the  mind's  digestion I 

1  o-day    am    teeming    with    the    vain    employment. 
What   wrecks   of   wild   convention    are   we   all! 
Wild  as  the  frigid,  molar  Arctic  Waste! 
Tradition  racks  the  woman's  blinded  feet 
And  warps  the  thought  of  superstitious  man. 
But  in  a  moment's  wild  rebellion,  all 
Restrictions  of   the  Cheops-mummy  past 
Are    disentangled:     vividly    the    Now. 
The   instant   moment's    fiery   passion    burns 
Athwart    the   bandages    that   calm    discretion 
Aii    piously    enwrapped    about    the    soul, 
And    wildly    rejuvescent,    stifled    flames 
Consume    all    usage — gone    Religion's   ban, 
Lost  fear  of  pointing  fingers  and  forgot 
Is    Conscience,    spirit    monitor    and    law, 
That  ebbs  before  the  vital  sun  of  Love! 

She  came  as  Dian  from  the  splendor  trod 

The    flower-singing    way    unto    her    shepherd, 
Mad  sweetly  sung  of   Keats,   Endymion. 
Tha  silken  filminess  of  her  green  gown, 
Ethereal,    was   intermingled   in 
The   moon-glazed   background   of   the   glade, 
Where   carpeting   eyes   of    the   ice-plant   wept 
For   her   glad   beauty.    I    may   not    list 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  11 


As    in    a    catalogue    the    things    she   said- 
Sweet    volubilities    of    past,    clear    days, 
And   praise    and    gratitude    for   my   small    deed 
Of    rescue — -ever    holding    well    aloof 
From    perilous    allusion    to    her    state 
Of  marriage   with   the   wealthy   lecher   whom 
She   loathed;    and   vaguest   tints   athwart   her   face 
And  glints   within   her  eyes,   revealed   the   fears 
And   sorrows    feit,    when   pensive   silence    fell. 
But    time    so    fled   before   our   happiness 
By   contrast  with  our  sorrow  trebly  sweet — 
Thus    so   because    we   sensed    it    to    be    transient 
From   the   Sibyl   voices,   psychic,   of   the  soul — 
That  the  round  moon  had  plumbed  her  arc  of  sad 
And    ebon    sky    and    overhung    the    canyon    scarp 
In    melancholy,    luminous    farewell, 
Ere  half  the  banal  sweets  of  speech  were  tasted, 
That  lacked  the  pith  but  had  the  sound  of  meaning. 
It  was   that  which  she  did  not  say  that  spake 
The  loudest,  thus:   "I  love  you,"  though  no  nun 
Ere    kept    more    strictly    all    proprieties 
Until — ah    God — there    fell    a    drench    of    sound 
Through    all    that    mystic    mountain    majesty, 
Where,  maddened  by  the  soul  of  Sappho,  sang 
A  morbid  mocking  bird  whose  aching  throat 
Seemed   bursting   to   empress   the   passion   pent 
Within    his    frenzy    rapt,    high-soaring    soul. 


And  weeping,  though  a  willing  "wronged  Lucrece," 
She   sent   me   from  her  beauteous  side,   to  meet — 
Where?     When? — We     twain    by    Nature's    in- 
stinct tied, 

By   man-made   error   kept    apart    as    long 
As   her    forbidding    faith  ententacled 
Her  heart  with  duteous  fear 


12  JOHN  MASTKRSON;  or 

V. 

SACRAMENTO— TWO  YEARS  LATER 

JANUARY 
1. 

Human   life  should  not  be  known  in  years, 
But  in  terms  of  feeling;   smiles  and  tears, 
Thoughts,   dreams,   joy,   despair,   love,   hate,   hopes 
and   fears. 

2. 

Our  emotions  are   the   shifting   tones 

Of  the  song  of  Time,  and  they  are  stones 

Whose  suppression   hearing   never   owns. 

3. 

Acts  are  but  the  progeny  of  these, 

Are  the  many  infants  on  the  knees 

Of   the   gods,    whose   whims    their   puppets   please. 

4. 

Phases  of  my   groping   life's   career 

Through   the   bitter,   sweet,   the   lush,   the   sere. 

Flow  in  numbers,   as  emotions  veer. 

5. 

Calm,    majestic,    through    the    rifted    brake, 
From  the  dome  I  see  the  river  take 
Turbidly   its   way,   a  moving    lake. 

6. 

So  my    life   these   months   has   gloomed   and   gon» 

Down  a  river  never  sunned  upon, 

As    the    hidden   Alph,    earth   under,    drawn! 


PASSION  AND  THE:  PRIEST  13 

VI. 
JUNE 

1. 

Yet   now   the   elms   mirror   a   greener   shade, 
Whose    interlacing    limbs,    a    cool    arcade, 

In    Summer's    torrid    waste,    adown    the    street 
Have   tented   for  toil   a  vocal  promenade, 

Orchestral   with   the   lilt  of   blithesome   birds, 
Whose  operas  lose  not  for  lack  of  words. 

2. 

Hydrarsglas  weave  in  winds  with  fresher  hope 
On   every   shaded    lawn,    or   sunny    slope; 

The  daisies  and  the  dahlias  brighter  greet; 
The    tendrils   of    the    ivy    peakward   grope 

With   more   exalted   striving   to   mine   eyes, 
To-day  made  all   alert  from  quaint  surprise. 

3. 

A   new   strangeness — there   came   to  me   a   line, 
From   Aileen,   pithy,    sad,    and   yet   divine, 

The  first  from  her  in  all  these  days 
Restrained    and    sorrowful — the   child    is   mine; 
Wtih   Nature's   true   design,   delineation 
Depicts  distinct  to  her  too  fond  creation. 

4. 

It   cannot    be    exuberence    I    feel, 

But  that  which  comes  at  night  to  those  who  kneel; 

A  stern  joy,  deeply  sacred  feeling  sways; 
Perhaps   such   as   to   martyrs   ere   the  wheel 

Revolved,  which  menaced  them  with  hoarded 

pain, 
Designed  by   tyrant,   zealously   insane. 

5. 

This  life  of  my   life  is  to  me  denied 
By  canons  of  propriety   and  pride; 

Avowal   cf   paternity   would   be   a   sin, 


14  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


A  crime  unto  the  innocent,  beside 

Which,    sacrifice    of    native    yearnings    wild, 
Is  duty   to   the   mother  and   the  child. 
6. 

The  world  has  no  suspicion,   wrote  Aileen, 

Though   nuances  of   such   she   late  had  seen, 
Mere  flickers  of  a  puzzled  doubt  within 

Her    husband's    stolid    heart,    disturb    his    mien — 
No    tender    traits    revealed    parental    bliss, 
No   baby   slang,    no    proudly    loving   kiss. 

VII. 

PATERNAL   LOVE 
I, 

Dear    liftle    baby    of    mine, 

Whence   came   thy   Cupid's   bow   coral? 
Who    could    have    painted    thine    eyen 

With  the  blue  of  the  deepest  dyes  floral? 
Oh,  I  know,  I  know!  Twas  thy  mother 
And  the  Spirit  of  Love,  and  none  other! 

2. 

Who   could   have   rapt   from   the   rose 

Her    delicate    pink    for    thy    cheeks, 
And  the  stainless  delight  of  the  snows 
From    Sierra's    inviolate    peaks? 

It  is  plain,  it  is  plain!    'Twas  thy  mother 
And  the  Spirit  of  Love,   and  none  other! 

3. 

Whence,    pretty    fairy,    thy    smile, 

The   bitterest   wight   to   disarm? 
And   thy   gurglings   that   evil   beguile 
To    become    thy    warder    from    harm? 

My    heart    tells,    my    heart   tells!    'Twas    thy 

mother 
And    the    Spirit    of    Love,    and    none    other. 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  15 

VIII. 

THE  RIVER 

JULY 

I. 

The    steamer    swings    into    the    morning    mist, 

Now    rising    o'er    the    river; 

The  drawbridge  strains  its  ponderous  bulk  atwisl; 
There    is    a    constant    quiver, 

A  regulated   cadence   fore  and  aft, 

The   beating    of    the    heart    within    the    craft. 

2. 

The    pilot    steers    a    serpentining    course 

From    bank    to    bank    and    center, 
Familiar   with   the   channel    from   its   source 
To    where    the    salt-tides    enter. — 

And  I  am  swept  along  o'er  unknown  seas, 
My  only  log-book  one  of  memories. 

3. 
Aileen   is   on    the   boat   and   by   my   side, 

And   with   her    tiny    Helen ; 
From  whom  as  many  walls  and  gulfs  divide 
As   if   I   were   a   felon. 

She  had  been  welcomed  by  a  valley  friend 
And  to  her  "master's"  side  her  ways  now  tend 

4. 

The  meeting  is  not  chance,  but  prearranged 

And   lasts  but  for  the  journey; 
Her  "Sultan's"   love   is   now  somewhat   estranged, 
And   though  he  would  be  stern,   he 
Succeeds   in   being   only   brutal,   till 
He  rouses  all  the  woman  of  her  will. 

5. 

I   quarrel   not  with   fervor,    faith   and   creed, 
The  trusses  of  religion, 


16  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


For  millions  find  they  fill  a  yearning  need 
To    rest    a    hopeful    bridge    on 

Into  the  Future  and  its  hidden  ways, 
Where  mortal  nights  become   immortal   days. 

6. 

The  day  on  which  this  in  my  diary  goes 

Finds    me    a    firm    agnostic, 
An  open  mind  that  only  one  thing  knows: 
That   Fate   to  him   is   caustic, 

And  that  he  would  not  lay  the  guilt  on  God, 
But  puppets,   who,   as   pulls   convention,   nod. 

7. 

But  Aileen  is  of  that  devoted  Faith 

Through  which  the  bond  of  marriage 
Forever   knits,    until    the   husband's    death 
Shall   terminate  miscarriage 

Of  that  most  well  intended,  futile  plan 
\X/hich  puts   a   better  mating   'neath   the   ban 

8. 

HER  sin  was  in  her  yield — but  cm  bono? 

The  past  is  passed   forever; 
She  shall  not  fill  the  fate  of  Desdemona 
To  his   Othello — never! 

Of  this  she  gravely  spoke,   and  of  her  fears, 
So    palely   brave,    repressing   natural    tears. 

9. 

And  though  my  heart  was  desolate,  bereft 

Of    all    that   makes    life    matter, 
And  only  lees  of  bitter  rue  were  left, 
I  could  not  think  to  shatter 

The  decalogue  her  church  prescribed  for  her; 
Agnostic,  yet  HER  Faith  I  must  not  stir. 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  17 


10. 

"He  dreads  the  scandal  of  divorce  in  selfish  pride," 

She  said,  "not   for  my   feeling. 
He   fears   the   gossip   tongues   that   would  deride, 
The  hidden  blot  revealing, 

For  he  is  one  who  bears  an  ancient  name 
That  must  not  be  besmirched  by  public  shame. 

11. 

"But  many  savage  slights  he  heaps  on  me 

Within  our   life  domestic. 
And  ch  that  I   again  were  free!" 
The   day   marched  on,   majestic. 

The   willows    and    the    cottonwoods    retreated 
Along   the   banks,   as   warriors   defeated. 

12. 

Night   rode  down  day  upon  a  vaulting  gale, 

Tanged   with   the   salt  of   ocean; 
The  genius   breath  of  tragedy;    the  pale 
Dusk    sipped    its    potion 

Of  red  wine  from  the  beaker  of  the  sun; 
Revived,  the  stars  peeped,  timid,  one  by  one. 

13. 

The  moon  had  hung  a  demi-disk  of  snow 

In   icy   far  serenity, 

But  now  she  gained  a  luminescent  glow, 
A  languid,   lorn  amenity, 

As   if   she   tended   Man   to   shepherd 
Him    from    the    Hate    that   makes   of   Law   a 
leopard. 

14. 

Ahead,   the   jagged   bastions  of   Diabalo 
Seemed   progress    interposing, 


18  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


Lit   by   the   waning   sunset's   winy   glow, 
An   awful   fortress   closing; 

And  then  the  river  made  a  sudden  turn, 
As  motion  learns  fixed  obstacles  to  spurn. 

15. 

The  river  finds  a  level  in  the  sea, 

Through  many   tortured  mazes, 
And   this   a  symbol   Sybillene  to   me; 
My   life's   entrammeled   phases 

Will   one  day   merge   into   the   primal   vast — 
Or   will   it   into  purest  day   have  passed? 

16. 

I   left  Aileen  and  Helen  safe  aboard 

The  steamer  for  the  southland; 
Though  all  the  man  within  me  mad  implored 
For    love,   with    firm   set   mouth   and 

Factitious  calm  I  bade  them  both  farewell. 
Aileen  and  I  each  knew  a  different  hell. 

17. 

Hers  was  the  Hades  of  the  after-death, 

All    blasting    fire    and    fury, 
Save  for  the  Purgatorial  mercy-breath 
Of    an   Archangel   jury. 

Mine  was   the  Sheol  of   the  thwarted  now — 
Convention's  Crown  of  Thorns,  Love's  Bleed 
ing    Brow! 

18. 

One  life  frowned  'twixt  a  present  Heav'n  and  me, 

I  mused,  in  hopeless  brooding; 
His    icy    interposing   mastery, 
Law-sanctioned,    right   eluding, 

Of  two  souls'  happiness  were  never  fled, 
By  Aileen's  code — until  he  join  the  dead. 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  19 


IX. 
THE  PRIMITIVE— ONE  YEAR  LATER. 

I. 

Can  this  be  happiness  here  in  the  cool  and  shady  glamour, 

Out  of  the  harsh  domain  where  on  the  racks  of  trade  men  clamor? 

The  primitive  simplicity   of  this  benignant  wood 

Uncrucifies    from   ivied   bole,    the   passion  of   the    rood. 

All  graced   about  with  messengers  of  healing  peace   and  balm; 

Here  life  pervades  with  all  the  grandeur  of  Creation's  calm. 

2. 

We've  builded  up  a  wattled  cot,   pavilioned  by  the  boughs, 
Aeolian  hung,  of  harps  among  the  Dryads'  peeping  brows. 
It   lies  within   a  sheltered  dell,   a  haven   in   the  hills, 
Anear  the  everlasting  swell  and  metronoming  spills 
Of   icy  water  o'er  a  granite   plunge,   a  pine-high  scarp; 
As  veers,  or  rests  the  fitful  wind,  its  clang  is  dull  or  sharp. 

3. 

Barbaric  cruelties,   refinements   of   the  subtle   art 
Of   innuendo    and    the    torture   of    a   wincing   heart, 
Aileen  had  borne  until  the  buyer  of  her   freedom  stepped 
Beyond   the   limits  of   the   ills  of  woman  once  outwept. 
Beyond   the    toleration    that   her   Master's    faith    demanded, 
Unto   such   tortures,   unescaped,    as   mankind   makes   red-handed. 

4. 

So   that   in   wild  revolt  she   left  the  hated  nuptial  bed; 
With    Helen    joined   me,    and    despair    into    the    forest    led; 
Sequestered   from  the   hounding  of   the   Puritanic  clan 
That  on  discovered  sinnings  only  burns  the  scarlet  ban; 
Reversing   epic   origin   that   Christians    find   their  creed  in, 
We've  fled  from  worldly  woes  into  this  high-embowered  Eden. 


20  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 

X. 

PREMONITION 

Sweet  purple-hearted  pimpernel, 
But   vermeil    as   an   ocean   shell 

Upon    thy   petal    fringes, 
In    thee   perceptive   instincts   dwell ; 
Detecting  ere   slow   senses   tell 
A   coming   storm,   thy   closing   bell 

With  omen  fancy  tinges. 

And   as   thy    furling  sepals  so 

My   dreams   their  prescient  shuttings  know, 

As  of  impending  crashes, 
When    lancing    rains    the    paths   shall    strew 
With    ravished    lilies'    ruined    snow: 
And    lightnings    torch   the   thunder   throe 

Till   strife   torrential   dashes. 

What  wonder  as   the  spirit  sees 
Such   vision,    then    to   still   hearts'-ease 

It   bends   sad   glances   burning. 
Ah,   sacred   flow'ret,   born   to   please, 
Thy   innocence  my   fever  frees, 
Thy   healing  nod,   thy   calm   decrees, 

Some    shimmer   of    truth    discerning! 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  21 


XI. 

THE  PRIEST  OF  GATH 

I. 

Within  the  wildest  ways  that  men 
Have   trod,    far   from   the    grave-like   den 
Of   coded   tyranny,    I    roamed  in   chase 
Of  deer  and  game;    or  scanned  the   face 
Of    waters    clear    to    diamond    deeps, 
The   icy  pools,   where,   pining,   sleeps. 
Narcissus  of   the   marble   heart, 
But  mine   the   trout-enticer's   part: 
Or   mountain   dainties   far   I   sought 
For    those    within    our    lone    love    cot. 

2. 

Day   unto   day   uttereth   bliss 
And   timeless   love   rains   kiss   on   kiss. 
Aileen's   pale  beauty   bloomed   to   joy 
Near    perfect,    which    could    never    cloy, 
Forsooth  we  knew  not  when  the  day 
Shculd  dawn,   when  snatched  the  cup  away, 
And  shivered  the  chime's  cerulean   tones, 
The   righteous  people  and  their  stones 
Should  burst  into  our  Eden  sweet 
And  chain  us  to  their  penance  seat. 

3. 

One    eve    I    found    a    man    whose   moan 

Bespoke  dire  need;   he'd  fallen  prone 

Upon    an   obscure   mountain   path; 

I    learned   him   as   the   Priest  of   Gath, 

For  he  was  one  who'd  sworn  a  vow 

To  storm  sin's  citadel  somehow. 

A   pulmonary    plaint    impelled 


22  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


Him  to  the  solitude;  he  dwelled 
Within  a  grove  of  pine  and  fir 
Where  constant  healing  spirits  stir. 

4. 

We  nursed   him  to   a  semblance  of 
His   former   self;    he  sunned   his    love 
Upon  us,  warm  and  pure  and  bright, 
As    calm    as    sacred   thoughts    at   night — 
A   holy   man,    if   ever  such 
Since    Christ    and    His    redeeming    touch, 
And    frequent    strove    he    to    recast 
My  creedless  shoon  to  his  own  last, 
And  sorrowful,  he  heard  our  story, 
As  one  who  grieves  for  glooming  glory. 

5. 

"Father,"  I  said,  "if  God  were  good, 
If  such  there  were,   he  never  would 
Have    turned    awry    the   hearts   of   men, 
Who  merely  sordid  motives  ken. 
He   never  would   see   women   sold 
Upon  the  block  for  lecher's  gold 
And  merit   crushed  by   greedy  power, 
Nor  slavery  the  poor  man's  dower, 
Nor    Nations   vampire   Nations'   blood 
And   glut  upon   the   reeking   flood." 

6. 

"Yet  love  will  conquer  all  the  world," 

He  calmly  said.     "Too  near  us  whirled 

Are  vast  events,  to  view  the  whole, 

Or  we  should  see  as  good   the   goal 

Of   this  world  in   the   universe; 

Faith  will   your  darkling  doubts  disperse." 

And  ever  toiled  he  to  recall 

Aileen  to  be  religion's  thrall 

So  that  uneasy  fears  I  knew 

Lest  she  return  to  churchly   rue. 


PASSION  AND  THK  PRIEST  23 


XL 

THE  PIT 

I. 

It  was  as  if  we  two  were  slaves 

Of  law  and  domineering  knaves, 

By   Circumstance  set   up   as   master 

Whom  to  defy   egged  on  Disaster: 

As   if   a  momentary  respite 

Were  ours  from  the  pursuing  despot, 

But  ever  nearer  on  the  wind 

The    baying   of    the    chosen    dinned. 

Why   could  we  not  be   let  alone? 

A   damnable   doctrine — the   "must    atone!" 

2. 

The  Priest  of  Gath  at  length  essayed 
Return   unto  his   templed   glade, 
There    piously    on   saints    to    brood — 
An  outdoor  priest,  but  not  a  Druid 
To   sacrifice   young,   weeping  Love 
And    moaning    incense    wreathe    above 
The   fell,   red  pyre;    with  good   intent 
He  came  into  our  lives  and  sent 
Full  many  a  pious  prayer  to  "God" 
That  "He"  not  smite  us  with  his  "rod." 

3. 

There  dawned  a  day  when  darkling  clouds 
Lay   on   the   peaks   like   Titan   shrouds, 
The   air   oppressive    with    alarm, 
So  still  the  thin  Aeolian  charm 
Of  pine  harmoniums  fell  mute 
And    louder  pulsed   the    foaming  chute. 
That  spilled   eternal   tides  below, 
Fed  by  the  sun's  transmuted  snow. 


24  JOHN  MASTKRSON;  or 


I    kissed    Aileen's    forebodings   still 
A.nd  proved  the  mystery  of  the  hill. 

4. 

A   cloudy   deep   unplumbed   of  man, 
Cleft  when  the  primal   shuddering  ran 
Athwart  Creation's  rocky   spine, 
Breathed   up   miasmis  as   a  mine, 
Down  which  the  quaking  fancy  peers 
And  Vulcan   hammers   faintly   hears 
In   vast    imagining   of    fables 
Read   nervously   on   midnight   tables, 
Gaped  on  my  left  hand  where  the  trail, 
But   seldom   used,    led   from   the   vale. 

5. 

The    shaggy,    mongrel,   woody    locks 
Of  manzanita   crowned   rude   rocks 
Of   granite,    like   crushed  heads   Titanic, 
Unnecked    by    thunderbolts    tyrannic, 
When   raged   rebellious  ire   of   giant, 
Of   Jupiter's    regime   defiant; 
And   here    and   yon,    hoary    and   bald, 
Old  skinless  skulls  of   rock   appalled 
With   sense   of   ruined  past   and   future — 
Sardonic  socket   and  jagged   suture. 

6. 

Long,  long  ago  some  troglodyte, 
Upon    the   margin   of    the    night, 
Deep  down  into   this  plumbless  chasm 
Peering,  blinked — when  passed  the  thunder  spasm 
Of  grinding  elements — and  hurled  the  ape 
Tarpeian  over,   then  agape, 
He   gazed   and   hearkened   for   a   sound, 
But  merely   awful   silence   round — 
As  yet,  to-day,   into  the  void, 
War  hurls  her  hosts  to  be  destroyed. 

7. 

As    spent    with    climbing,    I    rested   here, 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  25 


Unwelcome  noises  held  my  ear, 

Stumbling  of  one  upon  the  trail 

Far  round  a  rock  that  served  to  veil 

The   climbing   traveler,   and   me 

Frcm   him;    I   sensed  hostility 

And  hid  behind   an   aged  boulder, 

Colossal,    yet    so    poised    the    shoulder 

Might   with   a   heave   hurl   it   down   crashing, 

And   over   the  brink   send   dashing   and   smashing. 

8. 

Aileen's    husband,    nemesis,    cams 
lo  stalk  me   for  his  private  game! 
At    last   around    the    angle    leaning, 
Me  paused  below  the  overweening 
Fragment  of  the  elder  cliff. 
One   motion   of  my    arm — if — if — 
No  witness  to   accuse — no — trace— 
ihe  plunge  of   Lucifer  in  space — 
The   drag   upon   two    lives   adrift — 
Ah    how    the    sands    Satanic    shift! 

9. 

The   power   that   withheld   my    hand 
V/as   more    than    I    could   understand. 
I-   seemed  a  stalemate  of  the  will. 
The  stone  that   spake:    "Thou  shall  not   kill," 
\Yfas  but  a  Moses  sculptored  line, 
Sinai-conceived,  but  not  divine, 
The   interdiction  of   all   ages 
On    wise,    imperishable   pages, 
i  he   sheep's   defense   against  the   lion, 
Supernally    ascribed    to   Zion. 

10. 

And  still  my  spirit  lost  its  blur, 
My  rage  its  momentary  spur; 
The    Cain-red   hand    of    hate    eluded, 
L  ike  some  stern  statue  there  I  brooded, 
V,-'hi!e  he  whose  strands  were  interwoven 


26  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


In    tangled    tapestry    and    cloven 
Where  mine  began,   in  Life's  skeined  scheme, 
Seemed  some  ghost   figure  in  a  dream, 
While   Premonition,   like   a   vulture, 
i  here  hovered  for  some  vile  sepulture. 

11. 

More    tangible,     but    terror-fraught, 
A   sudden   sight  made  polyglot 
A  babel  of  the  inner  voices, 
From  Fear  to  Hope — as  Dawn  rejoices, 
In   consummated   deeds   of   night, 
T.  he   man   who's   struggled    fierce    with    Right 
And    lost,   but    lavish   Fate,   his   aid, 
Misfortune  on  his   rival   laid — 
So   o'er   me   transient    gloating   swept 
At  Death  which  on   the  other  crept. 

12. 

It  was   a  stalking  mountain  lion 

Whose   stealth   disturbed   no   foliaged  cion, 

Whose   yellow   eyes,    abhorrent,   burned, 

As    they   upon    his   prey   were    turned — 

A  savage  symboled  cinerary, 

Fuming  all   the  hate  my   heart  could  carry.— 

Unmindful    of    his    nemesis, 

(So    obtuse    Man's   native   premises) 

The  hunter  hunted  idly  rested, 

An  easy  spoil    for   an   end   detested. 

13. 

Again,   what  monitor,   what   hand, 
What   minatory,    stern    command ; 
What   triumph  of   the   Inner  Spirit, 
What  Power  made  me  list  and  hear  It, 
Unconceived;    'twas    not    my    will 
Which  reft  the   lion  of  his  kill, 
Which   bade  me   raise,   and   aim   and   fire, 
To  balk   the   beast  of   his   desire, 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  27 


Mysterious,   occult  ends  of   Fate! 
Most  senseless  what  I  now  narrate! 

14. 

For  he  whose  life  I  had  preserved. 
Yea  twice  a  better  will  deserved, 
Perceiving    me    now    half    revealed 
And   thinking  not  myself  to  shield, 
With  face  fear  white  and  raw,  red  oath, 

"Assassin!"    shrieked — and    ere    we    both 
A   nearing   step   could   take,    upraised 
His   rifle,   and   searing,   grazed 
The  scoring  bit  of  steel   and  lead, 
A   harmless   pain    athwart   my   head. 

15. 

And   ere   the   maniac    again 

Might  aim,  perhaps  and  not  in  vain, 

I    grappled   with    him    on    the    brink 

Of  space — the  brain  knows  not  to  think 

In   dreams,  when,    falling  endlessly, 

The   lifting  nadir  we  can   see. 

To  strain   for  epithets  is  vain; 

I  cannot  conjure  from  my  brain 

Meet  words ;    he  whirled  into  the  chasm — 

It  seemed  a  wild,   dream-borne  phantasm! 

16. 

And  still  no  dream;   his  cap  there  lay 
Upon   the  weapon   cast   in   the    fray. 
In  semi-stupor  I  hurled  them  wide 
Into   the  maw  of   the   mountain  side, 
Then   shivering,   hastened    from   the  scene 
To  sift   the  sequel  with  Aileen: 
Whether  to  meet  the  law  half  way 
Or  saving  silence  to  obey; 
And  all  the  homeward  path  I  heard 
That    poor,    last,    vain    accusing   word. 

17. 
When   yet   afar,    amazed,    I   saw 


28  JOHN  MASTRRSON;  or 


A   fitful   smoke,    as   of   wet  straw, 

And    leaping    madly    through    the    brake, 

Down  tangled  slopes  new  trails  to  make, 

Vaulting    pebbled,    arid    beds 

Of   bygone   broc!:s   and   tramping   heads 

Of  tender  buds  that   interposed, 

!  came  to  where  the  chapter  closed. 

Our   rough-hewn   hut    in    ashes    lay 

Gene,   gone,   save   dregs   of   dead    flames,    gray! 

XII. 
FEVER. 

1. 

Falling,     falling,    endlessly     falling, 

Like  the  flame  of  a  shivered  star: 
Calling,    calling,    soundlessly    calling, 

As   the    dreams   of   a   dreamer   are: 
Out  of    Orion   in   the   aeons   past 
Fiery   mist  moths   flew   in   the   vast, 

Drawing    a    comet's    car. 

2. 
Into    the    sun    from    out   of    Orion, 

The  fire-moths  are  warming  their  wings; 
Pinions   of   melody,   such   as   Amphion 

Wove    on    Aeolian    strings; 
But   as    Icarian,    waxen   were   they, 
Molten   as  snow  in   a  premature   May— 

The   soul    falls   and    falls   as    it   sings. 

3. 

Can  there  be  no  end  to  the  flaming? 

Can  there  be  no  floor  to  the  fall? 
Fire   into   water,   earth   aiming, 

And  over  the  craggy  wall. 
Down,   down,   down  in  a   fuming 
Quest   of   its    rest   resuming: 

Awaiting    Creation's    call. 


PASSION  AND  THK  PRIEST  29 


4. 

Fire  and  water  are  living 

And   song    is    Creation's   breath; 

Love  burning,   sorrow  giving 
Its  ashes  the  pit  of  Death. 

Real   or   unreal    this   dreaming? 

Seen   or  unseen   this   seeming? 

No   mortal   thing   happiness    hath! 

XIII. 

JUDGMENT. 
I. 

They've   called   me   guilty;    twelve   men   said 
The  wrong  of   it   lay  on  my  head; 
The  gallows  bear  perennially; 

No    lovingkindness    nurtures    them ; 
More   lethal  than   the  upas  tree, 

Vile  in  root,  branch,  in  bud  and  stem: 
And   I   shall   bloom   and   fade   thereon, 
For  mercy   from  the  world  is  gone. 

2. 

The   fever   left  my   brain   next  morn 
And  as  the  leper  all  men  scorn, 

Marked  by   the   curse   that  blighted  Job, 

But  lacking  hope  of  happy  end, 
Upon    my   soul   a   sackcloth   robe, 
In  vain  I   fevered  for  a  friend: 
The   story    told   lacked   all   belief: 
Men   look   for  murder  in  a  thief. 

3. 

For   love   illicit   is   a   theft, 

By   laws  transmitted   from  the  weft 

Of  social   fabric  when   the  clan 
Decided  on  monogamy, 

And    stocks    and   chains   were    for   the    man 


30  JOHN  MAVSTERSON;  or 


Who    lived   in    free   misogamy. 
It  is  done  well;    it  is  done  well; 
But   loveless  marriage  is  a  hell. 

4. 

And  still,  no  more  than   marriageless   love, 
When    free  of   fetters   is   the   dove. 
Aileen   the   victim   was   of    BOTH; 

On  her  fair  head  the  double  curse; 
How  beautiful  the  sanctioned  troth! 

Than    love   illegal,    can   aught   be   worse? 
But  love  by  gold  is  crucified! 
Nailed  on  the  cross,   love  drooped  and  died! 

5. 

My   tale  of   self-defense   was   dust 
Before  the  wind,  or  as  the  rust 

That    blinkards    see    on    tarnished    truth: 

They  made  a  martyr  of   the  dead; 
The   living   won   no    word   of   ruth; 

"Hanging  too  good   for  him,"  they  said. 
And   so   to-omcrrow's   morning   sun 
Will  see  the   real  murder   done. 

6. 

I    gaze   upon   thee,    fading   day, 
Who   soon    resume   the   primal   clay: 
But   musical   the   heart   within, 
For   Aileen   at   the    death-cell    stood, 
And  oh,   I   seemed  all  purged  of  sin: 

I    felt  the   future  would  be  good. 
My   baby    took   my    praying   kiss 
And  faith  then  came  with  flooding  bliss! 

7. 

How    I   rejoice   the   ashes  of 
That  hut  held  not   the  two   I   love! 
Aileen's   mad    father   set    the    fire 
And   with  my   loves   departed: 
And  as  Lot's  wife  looked  on  the  pyre, 

But  spared,  she  gazed,  though  broken-hearted. 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  31 


It  was  a  strand  within  the  plot: 
The  husbands  awful  night  was  not. 

8. 

Farewell    broad   earth  with   all   I    love; 
Farewell,  hills,  vales  and  peaks  above; 
Farewell,   sweet    flowers   of   (he    forest; 

Farewell,   bright  songsters   of   the   glen; 
Farewell,   thou  sea,    as   foam   thcu  pourest; 
Farewell,    farewell,    all    haunts   of   men; 
Farewell   to   all;    in  peace   I   leave; 
Farewell,    farewell,    twain    hearts    that   grieve! 

XIV. 
ON  TAMALPAIS. 

In   Excelsis, 

In    dreams,    I    stood 
Exalted  far  above  the  Wood: 
h  ir,  bay,   laurel,  pine 
Below  this   rocky  shrine, 
The  flayed  madrone, 

As    fairy   shoots. 
There,   poised   alone 

Upon  the  fruits 
Of   Time's   upheaval 
V,  uh  Cain   coeval, 

I  read  the  roots 
Of  mysteries, 
1  he  histories 

Of  souls  and  stars 
In   all   the   graphic   imagery   of   scars. 

2.' 

1  he   mist   that    robed 

i  he   sleeping    sea 

The   light  englobed  revealed  to  me. 
Blown  o'er  the  minor  hills — 
Illusion   Thought   distills — 
Creation    rolled 


32  JOHN  MASTKRSON;  or 


As  if   from  chaos, 

Worlds  manifold 
Of    light,    to    ray   us, 
Were  spawned  prolific 
In  beatific 
Forms  to  dismay  us. 
It   was  Creation 
And    Revelation 

Of  God   to   those 

Who   visioned   primal    planetary   throes. 

3. 

That  drama  vast 
Awoke  within 
Feelings  akin 

To   Shelley's   arching  thought; 

Mine  inner  gropings  sought 
For  words;   came  none! 
Beyond    expression ! 
As   tremors    run 
In   pent    recession 
Along   mute   lyres 
Whose   unthrummed   wires 
Have    ta'en    possession 
Of   inspired   yearning 
From   vast    tones    turning 
To  slaves  of  waves 
All   vibrant   atoms,   e'en   to   Heavens   architraves! 

XV. 

1. 

So    passed    the    glimmer    of    a    midnight    dream, 
As    along    the    Summer    seas    the    ghostly     gleam 
Of    some     far     falling     meteorite     lies 
For    one    flame-penciled    moment,    then    dies: 
When    up    I    started    from   waning   sleep; 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  33 


A    palpitating    fancy    moved    me    deep: 

My    v/arders    were    approaching   with    a    priest, 

Ere    faintly    God's    red    stylus    wrote    the    east. 

What    hastened    they?      Why     grudged    me    half    my    vision, 

To    disincorporate    me   with    elision 

Of  moments  priceless — ere   the  sempiternal 

And    starry    dial    should    blue    to    light    diurnal, 

And    I    might    taste    a    final    kissing    sun 

So    niggardly    admitted    by    the    one 

Checked    casement? 

Now    with    careful,     feline    tread, 
The  cautious   footfalls   hemmed  my  cell,   and   lo ! 
I  blinked,  as  weak-orbed  mortals  at  the  snow, 
For    garishly    a    light    was    flung    full    on    my    face. 
"Father!"    I    cried.    "You    come    with    grace!" 
And    then    the    massive    bolts    were    shot    amain, 
To    grate    and    groan    as    though    inflicted    pain 
Spilled   fear:    I    gazed   and    in    my   vision's   path 
I    read  a  miracle — the   Priest  of  Gath! 

2. 

A   modern   Paul   to   open   prison   gates! 

By  him   to   be   sweet   solaced,    solving   hates 

For    a   prospective    gallows    bourgeon !    I    held 

His  kindly  hand  in  silence  and  beheld 

Some   subtle,   onflammmg   radiance, 

As  if  an  aureoled  Apostle  did  advance. 

"Good   Father!"  raven-wise  I   croaked   at   last, 

"Some  marvelous   illusion,  or  some   vast, 

Deceptive  wile  of  vainly  hoping  thought 

Writes    glory    in    some    message    joy-enwrought 

Upon    your    face!"    His   eyes    were    moistly    luminous, 

And   ill    reserved   his   feelings — human    is 

E,ven   the   man   whose   duties  clerical 

Preclude   surrender   to   a   mien   hysterical. 

"Reprieved,"    he    said    in    that    bell-voice    disease 

Could   not   deprive  of  all   its   charm  to   please. 

"A    pardon    very    shortly    must    ensue. 


34  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


The  Governor  has  signed  this  boon  for  you." 

And    hereupon    the    Captain    of    the    Guard 

With  kindly  speech  confirmed  ....   This  night  bright  starred 
For  me:   the  cogs  of  Fate  at  last  had  turned, 

Reversing,    for   it  seemed   their   victim   spurned 

Had   naught  of    further   worth    in    lieu   of   moans — 
And  hearts  at   last  were  living — not  stones! 

3. 

Too    tedious   would   it  be   the   priestly   words 

To    recapitulate;    of    all    the    bird? 

Most   tiresome   is   the  magpie,   so   that   only 

The  substance  I   impart.      That   tragic,   lonely 

Encounter  on   the  verge  precipitous, 

The   Priest   of   Gath   had   seen,    far  over  us 

Ensconced  within   a  certain  beetling  eyrie 

That  overlooked  a  waste  of  rock  as  dreary 
As  Dante's  dusk  Inferno,   fastnesses 
Profound,  mysterious,   and  vastnesses 

Of  craggy,   violet   distance.      He   had   sought 

To    follow   me,    but    native    feelings   wrought 

Upon   his   pulmonary   weakness   so 

That,   crimson    from   his   palhd    lips   the    flow 

Ensued.      He    fell    into    a    dreamless    swoon, 

Reviving  hours    later    when    the   moon, 

Serenely    sheening   pity,    shone    upon 

His    suffering   and    lighted   with    a    wan 

Effulgence    all    his    falt'ring    homeward    path— 

And   many    days    the    Priest    of   Gath 

Alone    fought   off    inexorable    throes, 

But    still    preserved    the    courage    Vision    knows, 

Until   his  mustered  strength  permitted   travel: 

His    testimony    saved    without    a    cavil. 


PASSION  AND  THE;  PRIEST  35 


XVI. 

ANOTHER  YEAR  PASSES 

I. 

The  Priest  of  Gath  is  healed  and  I   am  ill, 

But    not    in    faith    of    reclamation   still 

Of    ill-starred    destiny:     I    moiled    a    maze 

Of    disappointment   many,    many    days 

Of    twisting    in    an    inefficient    search, 

As  one  who  sought  a  shrine  rapt   irom  a  church. 

Stale's   pardon    came    to   wash    ruy    tablets   clean 

And  all   my  heart-beats  pulsed   into  a  pean 

Till  clashed   the   muting  discord  of   a   lost  Aileen! 

2. 

A   prisoner    within    her    father's    castle    kept ; 
As  many   a   feudal  maiden  once   outwent 
Long   days;    what    lie   he    must    have    told    her! 
Forgive   him?    Yes.      Restore    the   hopes    that   moulder? 
1  hat   were   another   matter.      Believed   me   dead? 
Such  is   true  solace  .  .   .  Late  one  night  she   fled, 
"l  he    aga    is    new.      But    Wealth    is    tyrant    still! 
As   Mirabeau's  own    father's   overweening  will 
By    cachet    dungeoned    him,     his    rebel     fire    to     chill. 

3. 

Through   all    the   marts   of   men   I    sought   her, 
A    Gabriel,    in    search    of    Benedict's    lorn    daughter. 
Evangehne?     I    hold    mine    no    less   pure 
In  heart.      To   me   the  stain  sole   must   inure. 
And    so    I    dare    reversed    comparison. — 
Yet    like    to    wasted    soldiers    in    a    garrison, 
Besieged    and    famished,    daily    promise   dwindled 
And    every    new    delusion    that    my    fancy    kindled 
Turned    tawdry,    as    by    Rumor's    brass    a    dupe    is    swindled. 

4. 

Then   fever  came   to   burn  my   barriers   down. 
Despairing   furies  stormed   and   took   the   town. 


36  JOHN  MASTEKSON;  or 


The   Priest   of   Gath   in   lovingkindness   came 
To    balm    with    cooling    hands    the    throbbing    flame. 
The  balsams  of  the   forest,  mountain   air 
Had  healed   this  sacrificing  man  of  prayer, 
\Vhcse    thought   had   ever    been   of    aiding   others, 
Aspiring   but    amelioration    of   his    brother's 
Trials  with   a  love  exalted  as  a  mother's. 

5. 

Aileen,    I    faint,   in   my   great   love   of   thee! 
Bright    visions    vie,    in    gorgeous    pageantry! 
I   see   thy   beauteous   face   as   in   a   mist! 
And   lo !    It  bends  upon   me!      I    have   kissed 
A    luminous    dissolving    nothingness! 
Thus   balefully    doth   Fancy   soothe    and   bless 
And    torture    with    its    sweetest    vanishment, 
Until    the    fiery    love   within   the    victim   pent 
Hath   burned   his   heart    into   an    ash   to    find   its   vent! 

6. 

But   still    the    ember   glows    and    so    it    must 
Fill    love,   its  germ,   with   it  is   cold   in   dust. 
1  he  priestly  care  has  gradually   restored 

My   courage,   nearly  of   its   phials  poured. 

"My    son,"    he   says.      "\X/ithin    a   passing   while 

I    leave  for  Molochai,   the   leper   isle. 

That  is  my  destiny,  the  voice  of  God 

Commands   me,    humble    as    my   Jesus    trod, 

To    whose    most    muted    whisper    must    I,    yielding,    nod." 

'  7. 

To    Molcchai,    the    isle   of    living   death! 

V/here  Time  is  but   the  pulsing  of  one  breath! 

"Father,"   said    I,   "And   might    I    thus   atone 
For  all  the   tares   my   selfishness  has  sown— 

"No,    no,"   he    gently    put    the   thought    aside. 

"  V^cur  duty   clear.      It   cannot   be   denied. 

It    is    to    find    the   woman,    make    her    wife 

A.nd    give    the    child   a   name;    there    is    the    end   of    strife; 

I've   planned    a    compensating   purpose    for   your    life." 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  37 


XVII. 
COMPENSATION 

1. 

The   glasses   glitter   'neath   the   garish   blaze; 
The    dancers    wend    athwart    the    waltz's    maze 
Within   the  polished  place  of   tables   clear, 

V/here    many   sip    the   contemplative   wine, 
Or,  more  plebeian,  quaff  the  brimming  beer, 
And  weirdly   syncopated  music  hear, 
Where    Gaiety    reigns    on    his    urban    throne, 
And   each   would   hide   and    leave   his    canker   care    alone. 

2. 

The    shifting    moments    see    new    revelers    fed 

Adown   the   marble   stair,   to   gay    lights    led; 

For    San    Francisco's    night    is    second    day; 
The   artist    and   the    artisan    but    learn 

Then  how   to  make   the   "Western   Pans"   gay, 

When  midnight  censers  in  the  cabaret, 

To    Babylonian    bursts    of    laughter    burn, 
And    ashen    Care,    intolerant,    dies    in    the   urn. 

3. 

I    sit    alone,    a    puzzled    looker-on, 

A    hopeful    skeptic,    perverse    interest    drawn, 

Sub-conscious    stirrings   in    my    restive    mind, 

A  premonition   of   events   to   fall, 
The    strange,    unbidden    sense    that    seems    to    find 
In   the   Before   from  pangs   long  left   Behind, 
A  change  of   fortune,   as   a   far  soul  s   call 
In    some    wise    penetrates    the    kindred   spirit's    wall. 


38  JOHN  MASTERSON;  or 


4. 

The   dilettantes   return   unto   their   nooks 
With   lavish   color   and   more    froward    looks, 
To    yield   the   floor   to   one   who    is    to    dance, 
Some  new    and   daring,    gracile   coryphee — 
Some    "La    Petite    Marie"    from    sprightly    France, 
Who   shall   recall  how  swift  the   fads   advance — 

A  beauteous  being   from  the  wings  I   see, 
And   startle  with   a  cry:    "Aileen!"  —  and   not  "Marie!" 

5. 

No    dramatist    fantastical    devised 

A  stranger  scene  than  that  we   improvised, 
As  open  arms   to  open   arms  we  met; 

She    pale    and    momentarily    overborne, 

As   one   who   sees    a    ghost    she   can't    forget, 

Whose    heart    believes,    whose    doubting    bram    not    yet 

Is    mistress    of    its    power,    passion    torn, 

Rejoicing,    though   ils   habit   long   to   mourn. 

6. 

And   all   impressions    vaguely   to    a   blur 
Were  interfused,  except  the  gift  of  her  .  . 

,  •  •  •  •  •«*• 

The    queries    curious,    the    lip-curled    leers, 

The    hum    of    all    the    titillated    crowd, 

The    sympathy    of    better    hearts    avowed, 
And    though    we    were    the    cynosure    of    sneers, 
No   carmine   shame   we   knew,    for   these   were   sacred   tears. 

7. 

Remote,   unreal,   was   the  sweep   of    lights 

And   all   confusion   of   a   city's   nights 

As    swiftly,    soon    for   her   retreat   we   sped, 
And    in   the   afterglow   of   sudden   joy 

She    spoke   of    hew    she    learned    to    deem    me    dead, 
How  hope  and  almost  reason   from  her   fled, 

When,    prisoned,    by    her    father    she    was    told 

That  one  was   duly   dead   for   whom   no   knell   was   knelled 


PASSION  AND  THE  PRIEST  39 


8. 

Abhorrent   was   the    thought   of    life   until 

A    baby's   hands    implored    a   sterner   will; 

And   motived   by   a   wild   desire   to    flee 

Her   hateful   home   and  him   who   caused   the  wreck, 

By   strategem   she   and    the   child   were    free, 

Supposing    quicklime    were    the    end   of    me, 
She    followed    fortune's    ever    casual    beck, 
Became   the  ballet,   as   a  rose  without  a   fleck. 

9. 

Next  morning  were  we  wedded  by  our  priest: 
The  sun  had  hymned  his  pean  from  the  east; 
The  gloried  winds  had  blown  a  symphony, 

And    roses,    roses,    Beauty's    incense    shed: 
But,  joy  of  all!     Our  baby  lisped  to  me 
That   sacred,    loving   word   of   ecstacy, 

That   gladdens   gloom   unto   the   heart   that   bled; 

The   Priest   of   Gath   his    noble    benediction   shed. 

10. 

Next  morning  sailed  he   for  his  dutied  Gath, 

For    Molochai    to    tread   the   martyr's    path, 

To   yield   his    life   unto   his    fellow   man; 
His   Christ-like  spirit  seemed  an  aureole 

About    his    silvered    brow;     since    Time    began 

No  greater  abnegation   led  the  van; 

One   touched  his   robe   as   lepers   did   the  stole, 

The    sacred   white   of   Jesus'    faith   that    made    them    whole. 

11. 

He'd   given  me   an   island  in  the  sea 
Of    Oceania,    his    by    legacy, 
A    coral-coasted,    breaker-beaten    strand, 

With    harbor    crescented    for    commerce    calm — 
One-half    the   copra    for   his    lepers   planned, 
The  other  mine,   the  yield  of  pearl   and   palm — 
Aileen  a  farewall  wept;   I  pressed  his  hand 
And   boundless   love   he   sped   from  eyes,   sky   blue  and  bland! 


40  JOHN  MASTKRSON;  or 


12. 

And    so    we    bade    The    Priest    of    Gath    Farewell: 
The    steamer   bore    him    to    the   vales    where    dwell 
They    who    have    quaffed    disciples'    blood    and   bread 
Of   Christ's   own   deathless   body    theirs, 
One  with  their   tissue,  yea,   for  whom   the  prayers 
Of   saints    beyond   the   Sinaied    temple    pled!  — 
The  Priest  of  Gath  as  one  a  nimbus  wears 
And  knows  it  not — a  Grail-keeper  unawares  I 


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